You are only spoken of in guilty whispers
Between obsidian walls
By my aging father
His hushed urgency divulges:
You made a whole number flawed.
You do not have a grave
Because my mother still carries you
In the plots of her heart reserved for
Burying festered parts of herself
Never to be mentioned again.
Can one miss another who never was?
I miss the bond we never had, like
My left arm misses its right
The gaping hole speaks
Of sundry experiences I will never know.
All I know is
When your premature limbs began to convulse
And the walls that nurtured you suffocated instead
Her womb became your drowning tomb
The tremors seized her as he held her tight —
And all they could do was clutch your translucent body beneath the tungsten light.